by Julia Hughes
‘I’ll put in a good word for you at your trial son.’ Crombie turned to gaze out the side window, trying to hide a grin.
‘If you were dog’s meat, I wouldn’t miss your lame arse jokes.’ Rhyllann retorted. ‘Anyhow I ain’t done nothing.’ Crombie laughed out loud at that, sending Rhyllann into a sulk.
But Crombie was in a really good mood now and wanted to chat. Rhyllann ignored him until he received a sharp dig in the ribs.
‘What?’
‘I said at least your cousin is a master manipulator.’
‘Wren?’
Crombie nodded, looking embarrassed. ‘I went on a profiling course. He ticks all the boxes. What they call Machiavellian.’ Rhyllann considered this.
‘You mean he always gets his own way? Well duh. Those baby blues and blond hair.’
Crombie shook his head. ‘It's more than that. Wren managed to persuade those filth that he wasn’t going to co-operate unless they gave him something first. And got you to understand what was going down too. He pressed a few of my buttons too if you remember.’ Rhyllann gave it some thought then decided to let Crombie think what he liked. If he wanted to class the little geek as some kind of mastermind, that was his affair.
‘What about me then? Did you profile me?’ Rhyllann asked casually.
Crombie folded his arms, smug as a life sized Buddha. Rhyllann wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
‘I’ve been round your house son. Typical sports mad teenager with an unusual passion – gift – for flying.’
Rhyllann’s eyebrows shot up. Praise from Crombie! But he hadn’t finished. ‘That first time – when I met you at the station. You kept touching that chain round your neck. Made me wonder. The average teenager’s careless. My girls for example. Always losing things – mobiles – I-pods – keys. Careless. But not you. You wear your front door key round your neck. Because you can’t afford to lose it. If you lost it – there’d be no one to let you in. I watched you coming out the station. Most people stop at the vending machine – grab a coke or a snack. Not you. Counting the pennies.’
Rhyllann glanced sideways at him. Crombie wore the crocodile smile.
‘You’re the anomaly. A careful teenager. But your cousin’s kept you on the back foot from the start.’ A Crombie grunt. ‘Kept us all on the back foot.’ He raised his eyebrows, inviting comment.
‘You’d better start looking for a field to land in before we crash.’ Rhyllann said, wiping the smile off Crombie's face. Adding ‘How old are your girls then?’
Two could play the psychobabble game.
Chapter Thirty
Crombie found a decent enough field for them to set down. If he noticed the absence of engine noise, he didn’t comment. They were trudging now up a steep hill. The town of Tintagel perched to their right and even higher along the cliff tops. This area didn’t seem badly affected by the freakish weather. Still streams of water rushed along the sides of the road to swirl around overflowing drains. Rhyllann was transfixed by Tintagel Castle, unable to take his eyes from it. It loomed to their right. Erupting from the granite cliffs built from slabs of grey stone. Like the monolith Taffy’s Folly, it seemed part of the natural landscape. Crombie pushed Rhyllann towards a stile.
‘This way – a footpath over the fields.’ It was all right for him. He had wellies. Still Rhyllann’s feet couldn’t get any wetter, or colder. He squelch forward trying to find the firmest ground as they crossed the field diagonally, surprised Crombie hadn’t insisted on heading for the local police station first. The air tasted salty now and smelled of fresh seaweed. The soaring cliffs descended to scrub land as they headed left, castle and town to their right. A few brave souls hiked along the coastal path. Even further to their left Rhyllann spotted a sandy beach snuggled into a cove. He imagined Crombie and wife sunbathing, their girls giggling round their deckchairs. His mind shied away from the image of Crombie in swimming trunks. A thought struck him.
‘What did Wren mean? When he asked if you knew who built Tintagel Castle?’
Crombie thought for a moment then said. ‘You saw it. It’s supposed to be the birthplace of King Arthur. Only it’s thirteenth century.’ He paused, trawling his memory. ‘The Earl of Cornwall built it. Henry the Third’s brother.’ After a further pause he added. ‘Guess that would make him a nephew of your Princess.'
They trudged on in silence, Crombie busy with his own thoughts, Rhyllann’s wandering off in all directions. Now Crombie tugged at him.
‘There.’ He said pointing. What Rhyllann had taken for a huddle of bungalows was apparently the ruined monastery. According to Crombie, there had never been mention of a convent. The rain began again.
‘Jesus – how much more is there up there?’ Crombie said tugging his collar upwards. Rhyllann shivered. But even as it splattered the ground the rain drizzled out, one last jeer at mankind. The sun came out arching a brilliant rainbow, bridging the land to the ocean. As they watched, two land rovers veered off road towards the ruins.
Rhyllann turned to Crombie: ‘We beat them here!’
‘Don’t sound so surprised son. They’ve probably had to detour like crazy.’
Still Rhyllann felt stupefied until he worked out that since leaving Holden probably only two hours had elapsed. It only seemed like a lifetime ago.
*
Once more Rhyllann watched bodies scurrying around. Only now Crombie lay face down beside him providing a running commentary.
‘They think they’ve found it. Looks like they’re attaching a winch to something in the ground.’ A muffled cheer floated their way. A smaller figure was dragged from a jeep, then suddenly bodies started dropping out of sight. Rhyllann sprung upright, Crombie yanked him back.
‘A tunnel. They’ve found a tunnel.’ Oh lord. When they found the treasure, what would happen to Wren?
‘What are we gonna do?’ He asked. Crombie looked over his shoulder towards the unseen town of Tintagel.
‘That’s miles away Crombie!’ Rhyllann spat. ‘Don’t even think about it.’
Crombie didn’t answer. With mounting desperation Rhyllann realised the detective had no idea what to do next.
‘They won’t harm him.’ Crombie said. ‘They’ll want a hostage.’
Rhyllann shook him. ‘Don’t lie to me! Mikey Stern blames Wren for his father's death. He hates him! And anyway – we can’t let them take him with them!’ Rhyllann's voice rose. He staggered upright.
‘Come on!’
Crombie pulled him back. ‘What do you think we can do? Ask them nicely to come quietly?’
But Rhyllann had a plan. Of sorts. ‘They might not have left a look out. We can roll a jeep over the tunnel. If we get the other one started we can drive back to Tintagel – get help.’ It was a crap plan. Wren would be trapped down there too. But at least it was a plan.
Crombie insisted that instead of sneaking around furtively, their best chance was to act like tourists and march up to the ruins. And hope they weren’t recognised.
‘Pretend we’re lost – try to gain their confidence.’ He said stooping to slip a rock into his pocket. ‘You knee one in the balls – I’ll wallop ‘em over the head!’
‘Yeah right.’ Rhyllann said, biting back a comment about not having his ju-jitsu socks on.
There was only one lookout. They changed the script slightly. Rhyllann approached limping and sobbing. The guard slipped out the jeep to comfort him, playing his own part of a concerned council worker. Crombie crept up behind and slogged him over the head. Then frisked the guy while Rhyllann searched the jeep. He found a bundle of cable ties and some rope. Bingo!
‘Look!’ He said – waving them at Crombie. Crombie widened his eyes to show delight, then waved his own prize.
‘Look!’ he echoed.
‘Oh nice. Swap?’
Crombie smiled, tucking the matt black pistol inside an inner pocket against his chest. He rolled the unconscious man under the jeep, jamming his hands together while Rhyllann secured his wrists with t
hree cable ties.
‘Put one round his thumbs. Ankles too.’ Crombie said. Rhyllann wanted to rush down the tunnel. Crombie held him back – demonstrating how to temporarily disable a diesel engine by yanking out the glow plugs.
‘See?’ He said, shiny metal nestling in his palm. ‘Won’t start without ‘em!’ Crombie explained. Rhyllann saw and disabled the second jeep under Crombie’s supervision.
‘Atta boy. Petrol engines are easier, just snap out the spark plugs. Make a copper of you yet.’
Or a thief thought Rhyllann watching the two essential parts slip into yet another pocket. He wondered if anyone had ever suggested a man-bag to Crombie. And lived to tell the tale.
‘Come on son – let’s go!’
Plastic keep away tape had been twisted around the metal rods which surround a large hole in the ground. An official looking sign warned. “Danger of Death. Keep out.” A hand written sign read “Danger. Deep Mine Shaft.”
Stepping over the tape they dropped down into a room sized pit. A clay wall had been demolished revealing wide smooth steps gouged from stone, fading as they sunk into darkness. Reaching for his mobile Crombie led the way. As they descended the stairs widened dramatically, opening into a cathedral sized cavern. The last seven steps swept to the right, completely exposed. Two then three voices called out; the acoustics rendering their words inaudible. Free standing halogen lamps lit up the place casting ominous shadows against the wall. As Rhyllann’s confused brain tried to make sense of the scene Crombie darted back, pushing him up the steps, pressing a finger firmly to his mouth. Huddling in the anchoress cell below ground level they held a hurried discussion.
‘I counted four of ‘em down there. Four! We were lucky not to be spotted.'
‘Wren – did you see him – is he ok?’
‘Yeah yeah. He looks fine son.’ Crombie wouldn’t met his eyes.
‘We’ll have to find another way in. Crombie please. We’ve come this far.’ Without waiting for an answer Rhyllann hauled himself from the cell. Scrambling back to the jeeps, Rhyllann surveyed the area. To his left the ground rose before breaking off to form the cliff edge. The ruined monastery lay to the right, almost hidden in a dip, and beyond that the town. The immensity of the scene was emphasised by its solitude. There didn’t seem to be another living soul around, unsurprising as rogue clouds continued to float by dumping their loads indiscriminately. Rhyllann heard but didn’t register the sound of a jeep bonnet being slammed shut. Chewing at a knuckle, he wondered if they should investigate the monastery ruins, search for a hidden passage way maybe connecting the monks with the nuns, thinking if only Wren were here … An engine spluttered then rumbled. Spinning round he saw Crombie at the wheel of a jeep, checking the gears’ locations, giving little experimental pumps on the accelerator. The traitor! Racing up to tear open the passenger door he threw himself at Crombie.
‘You promised! We can’t leave him – we can’t just leave him! Crombie!’ Grasping Rhyllann, Crombie heaved him over his lap and into the passenger's seat like a life sized doll.
‘Get in, sit down and buckle up. Then shut up.’ With that the jeep sprung forward jolting Rhyllann into his seat. Before he could say a word, they’d reached their destination and Crombie wrenched the handbrake full on, carefully selected reverse and killed the engine. Rhyllann gulped. The jeep’s windscreen actually overhung the cliff top which angled steeply inwards, back to rocks at least fifty feet below. He felt sweat break out on his palms as two huge waves smacked together sending spray halfway up the cliff. They were perched on the very edge, the slightest breeze would surely topple them over. Rhyllann cringed back in his seat, eyes wide with horror. At that moment the jeep rocked and he screamed:
‘Crombie get us out of here!’
But the driver’s seat was empty. Clinging onto the jeep’s frame Rhyllann slithered from his seat, happier with firm ground beneath his feet, but wanting it firmer. Crombie had vanished. Still clinging to the jeep Rhyllann inched his way to the cliff top in nightmarish slow motion and peered over, mesmerised by foaming waves slamming over the rocks far below. He started, grabbing the bull bar for balance at a voice coming from the ground.
‘Son stop mucking about and give me a hand here.’
Crombie was on his knees at the jeep’s other side, securing rope to the bull bar. Rhyllann swayed with relief then toppled backwards to plump down on his backside. Then scrunched back a few inches, flinching as a rope whipped into his lap, followed by Crombie wriggling upright. Not even bothering to hang onto the jeep, ignoring the Atlantic Ocean battering the cliffs inches away; Crombie stood up and began tying a noose at the rope’s end. Noticing Rhyllann hadn’t moved, with a jerk of his head he said.
‘Take a look down there.’ Rhyllann whimpered but wriggled forward on his stomach obediently. Vertigo rushed to meet him and he closed his eyes tightly, turning his head against the jeep’s front wheel. The smell of rubber made him feel even sicker, Rhyllann twisted his face the other way, only for green wellies to fill his vision. Next thing Crombie was sitting beside him, legs dangling over the cliff, smacking him on the back and wanting a conversation.
‘Did you notice that crevice – just a chink of light – I reckon some kind of tunnel maybe even a ventilation shaft.’
Rhyllann sensed him leaning forward, and wanted to tug him back, but his fingers were glued to the earth somehow. In fact, his whole body was paralysed. Apart from his insides.
‘Get me out of here, get me out of here.’ He whined.
‘Are you listening to me? Rhyllann? Oh for god’s sakes.’ A hand grabbed at his jacket, scraping him back from the edge and yanking him into a sitting position. Immediately the paralysis left, and his limbs trembled uncontrollably. Crombie’s mouth tugged at the corners, a look of delight crossed his face.
‘Vertigo! Don’t tell me you suffer from vertigo!’
Suffer was the right word. And he didn’t see what Crombie found so funny.
‘It isn’t vertigo. It’s self preservation.’ Anger fuelling him Rhyllann forgot to be frightened. Standing up he took a couple of steps towards the edge telling himself it wasn’t that bad. The drop wasn’t that steep and the rocks weren’t that black and shiny and jagged. The ocean looked deep though, deep enough for sharks maybe or even killer whales. Rhyllann dragged his eyes back to Crombie holding the coiled rope. Hands on hips he said.
‘Don’t tell me. You’re going to lower me down and I’m going to crawl through that tunnel.’
With only a hint of sarcasm Crombie said ‘Face it son, I’m just not built for pot holing.’ Then in a gentler tone: ‘If I could do this for you, I would.’
His pity scalded Rhyllann into action. Ducking his head and arms through the noose he sat at the cliff edge emulating Crombie’s distain for heights.
Twisting round so his chest butted against the cliffs, he gave a sharp nod. Crombie took up the slack and with a push Rhyllann dangled mid air trying not to think about sharks. And if they could jump. His mind chided him: Stop wimping, this isn’t so bad, you’ve flown much higher – miles higher. The worse part is over. The bit before you jump is always the scariest he told himself. And now he was committed, feet scrabbling for foot holds, Crombie’s bulk above him and a good solid rope around him; digging into his flesh, almost dislocating his shoulders, any moment now he would slip out the noose and his sweaty hands wouldn’t be able to hold the rope and he would fall and he wouldn’t be killed outright and Crombie couldn’t scramble down cliffs because he wasn’t built for it. Hours of agonising pain surging through his broken body racked on jagged rocks while sea creatures nibbled on his limbs probably going for his eyes first stretched before him until Crombie fetched help just too late. The rope jerked, sliding up a couple of notches and he whimpered again.
‘Just there son – just to your right – see it? Come on Rhyllann – you’re on top of it!’ He’d been so wrong about Crombie. He had no compassion at all. Squirming so the noose cradled his lower back, Rhyll
ann hauled his legs up until his knees were waist level, then bunny hopped, clutching at the ridged outcrop guarding the crevice. Heaving himself face first to flop into the tunnel’s opening he struggled to free the rope. Crombie’s knot refused to give, there wasn’t enough room to spread his arms upright. If it hadn’t been for voices echoing up to him, he would have given up. Instead new hope spurred him on. Pushing back to balance on the cave’s rim, Rhyllann shrugged off the rope, then waved at Crombie before diving back in and wriggling along the sloping tunnel.
Two blond heads glistened in the artificial light. Wren rested against a boulder in the middle of the cave, his chin slumped against his chest. Hewes held a pistol to his forehead. Rhyllann counted three men examining the walls and floor of the cave with their fingertips, before his eyes were drawn back to Wren. And the boulder. Involuntary, a long low whistle escaped him. Wren’s head came up, cobalt blue eyes stared directly upwards, and a dorky smile lit up his face.
‘What’ve you got to smile about you little runt!’
Rhyllann flinched as the pistol slammed against Wren’s temple – almost calling out in anger.
Ignoring her Wren spoke clearly. ‘Would you please tell WPC Hewes to stop knocking me around the head. How do you expect me to think?’
Crombie had miscounted; from the shadows a fifth figure emerged, easing Hewes to one side. Rhyllann’s breath caught in his throat; the rugby player spoke.
‘Christ sakes. He isn’t going to run anywhere. Not with that foot!’ To Wren he said. ‘What is it? What have you seen?’
Wren pointed to the far side, opposite the steps. ‘That wall there – I don’t know – does it seem different to you? Smoother – less natural?’
The man patted Wren’s head. ‘Good work. Good. Good boy.’
He walked over to investigate calling to the others as he went. Wren gave them a moment or two, before standing up to stretch. Covering a yawn with one hand he splayed the other wriggling all five digits. Rhyllann managed an awkward upside down thumbs up sign, then began wriggling backwards as fast as he could. Emerging from the tunnel he clambered back in to the noose and without waiting for Crombie to haul, squirreled up the rope.